On Discovering Robert Hayden

I find it hard for myself to describe why I was particularly moved by the words of Robert Hayden. My capture began in the headnote about him and the stanza included there at the end. There is something, a mysterious something that I cannot describe, about the voice and tone in his poems that makes me feel as though I am There. His writing puts me in exactly the place he wants me and it refuses to let me move until the poem is over and the message received.

Those Winter Sundays holds the notion so beautifully that a father does things unthanked, not because he would want the glory for the thing having been done, but simply because the thing needed to be done. That is the very definition of being a responsible man.

Middle Passage is a journey, an epic in meaning and range if not length. The absolute terror of slave ships, and the entire slave trade, is lamented beautifully. The shear inhumanity of the times is portrayed, but from different voices and even an ironic perspective when the traders speak. The poem pushes you into different eyes and you, as the reader, are driftwood in the sea of observation and horror where Hayden is Poseidon.

This window I have been given I am grateful for, and I will seek out more of his work to hear more of his voice.

My Gift

Do I have that which God doth need in me,
And can I sow a smile upon the sky?
Is this one life wholly enough to give
With prayer and piety as a vessel?
Lovely is grace, homaging him for me,
As His forgiveness moves to perfect me.
But is my love a satisfying meal
For His great hunger, need, and good cause?
I make my Faith a flower then, for Him,
And bundle all my ready tools in rose.
The hope that it may please must keep my mind
While I prune my thorns and bide my short time.
With all my Boon, given by He above,
My loyalty: offered to earn his love.

Pizza Pie Will Make Me Fat

Where can I find a piece of pizza pie
That won’t flop when I try to hold it up,
So that my mouth might give a little bite,
And leave me filled as though I’ve had enough?
Does that soft meal consider itself real,
Or does my tongue thirst for a fantasy?
Does this cheese covered treat entail a meal,
Or is a pizza pie not fit to eat?
Should I digest this morsel of good food,
Knowing as it may seem that I do,
That it should treat my stomach so uncouth,
And leave me doubled over as a fool?
But I will eat, let the obese now show,
For I will eat and eat and so will grow!

My Aphasia

You are my aphasia.
I live and die on you.
You are my depression,
My ecstasy,
You are the black in me,
You are the best in me.

I need your skin, I feel your truth,
I live to be a part of you.

You are my treachery,
You are the words in me.

You are the stereotypes of my thoughts,
I live and die on you,
You are my aphasia.

A Standard Issue

Emotion, shall we agree, is a standard issue
Made of the most feathery, breakable tissue,
(And man, dusty from eternity, knows the misuse)
But still kneads out an identity: an absurd masseuse.

But as it floats and shatters humbly away,
(And man, being moldable, bends to its sway)
Made, are we, to feel and so then turn gray;
Emotion is the blood pouring from life's wide splay.

Mr. Rainer

Mr. Rainer ran very slowly, after he had been hit by a car, to the hospital. He would have gone faster, the emergency of the situation all but ensured that, but his new, grotesque limp was an insurmountable impediment. The car had clipped his calves fro behind while Mr. Rainer was pausing in the street in the crosswalk to pick up one of his quarters.

He always carried four quarters in his left pant pocket. There was something about the jingling of the change while he walked that had always made Mr. Rainer smile. He would also, occasionally, reach his hand into his left pant pocket and rattle the four quarters manually if the automation of walking provided an insufficient metallic din. So was the happy quirk of Mr. Rainer.

The day Mr. Rainer was hit by the car was wet. It was not raining, but had been, so the city street was soggy but, owing to the moisture, pleasantly uncrowded. Mr. Rainer was about town, between obligations, before he had to run to the hospital. The car was speeding and, more than likely, had ran a traffic light. Such is usually the case in similar instances. No doubt the driver did not see Mr. Rainer in time to throw on his breaks; the suddenly sleek, wet road would not allow for quick stops. So, when Mr. Rainer stopped in the crosswalk to bend down and grab one of his quarters which had fallen out of his pocket—he was rattling them quite hard but mindless to the fact—he had no knowledge of his impending disfigurement.

Mr. Rainer's back was facing the car. He heard the squeal of the black rubber on the gray, wet gravel and stood in attention. He had time to move his head back over his left should just to see the hood and grill of the car move into his legs. The grill clipped both calves but the left leg was the most affected. Mr. Rainer's lower left leg was pushed away from his body very quickly, as if he was trying to kick an approaching ball, but the upper half of his leg, from about the knee on, did not follow. Mr. Rainer heard the knee buckle and quickly became sick to his, up until that point, stolid stomach. The right leg made an unnatural jerk but nothing had obviously snapped or buckled, and Mr. Rainer had faith that it, unlike the left leg, remained unmangled. After the initial blow, Mr. Rainer's body slumped onto the hood of the car and panic slowly started to rise in Mr. Rainer.

As a small child growing up in the pleasantly nondescript suburban area of town, Mr. Rainer was taught never to make a spectacle of himself. His mother would refuse him anything he would cry over wanting, and this taught Mr. Rainer to never want anything too strongly. It also forced into him an admirable humility and served to calm his tumultuous nerves in times of emergency. A necessary result of this particular combination of rearing philosophies was that Mr. Rainer utterly refused to make a nuisance of himself. Some of his more critical peers complained that it seemed Mr. Rainer held himself above his company, but this was simply not the case; Mr. Rainer loved his fellow man and had a distinct, aloof kindness about him. Mr. Rainer just did not see the point in indulging upon the kindness of a host and forcing him or her to waste his or her hospitality and resources when it was not, in fact, needed. This is why Mr. Rainer refused a ride from his deformer to the hospital after his leg had been ruined.

The driver of the guilty car was very kind and courteous, obviously concerned past his obligation in the matter and generally well wishing for the man he had just broken. But Mr. Rainer would have none of it and, after he was able to tear himself from the damp, dark hood of the driver's car, made it all but clear, in as a calm and civil manner possible in his growing panic, that a ride would not be necessary. The hospital, as Mr. Rainer hurriedly but fully, pointed out was only several blocks away, and, on the bone and muscle of the good leg, Mr. Rainer could make it there very easily. The driver still persisted, but Mr. Rainer was beginning to grow light headed from stamping on his one good leg and gentle rattling along the moist road with the other in the small, pacing steps he was taking.

The police, who had been called from a nearby telephone booth by a witness and typically good Samaritan, were making their way to the crosswalk where Mr. Rainer's quarter lingered, heads up, waiting ever so patiently to be returned to the company of its three permanent companions. Mr. Rainer heard the sirens first, but in his pacing and continued dealings with the driver of the awful car, was able, somehow, to ignore them while he persisted in his attempts to politely, but assuredly, make his own way to the hospital which remained only several blocks away. When Mr. Rainer noticed the swirling lights beginning to reflect from the damped things and puddles around him, he decided to quickly thank the driver for everything (he was, honestly, a gentleman of the first class) and make his way rather rashly to the hospital before the police would stop him. There was no reason, thought Mr. Rainer, to waste all the resources of an ambulance, and all the to-do of a barrage of police questioning, just to get him to a hospital over an exploded lower left leg.

Mr. Rainer hobbled his way over to where his orphaned quarter still sat and quickly gobbled it into the warmth of his pocket with the other three. When the quarter hit the bottom of the pocket, and consequently the other three quarters, it made a familiar and calming ding, and Mr. Rainer, in his current near-panic, displayed the hint of a smile. It was always so pleasant to hear them rattle about in that certain way that they did. He would have smiled fully but he did not think the onlookers who had gathered would quite understand why a man in his state would be smiling. Besides, thought Mr. Rainer, it was a personal matter (the jingling of the quarters) and it is best to keep the quiet joys in life to yourself, especially when you need them the most. But, noticing the shockingly bright streams of blood eagerly gushing into his left shoe from the carnage of what was left of his lower left leg—and noticing the police cars creeping slowly to the scene from farther up the now crowded road—Mr. Rainer decided to hop to, and began to run, as best as he could with his horrifying aliment, those several blocks toward the hospital.

That Old Game

Forgive awkward glances and failed attempts to impress you.
Ignore the poorly placed jokes
And off hand remarks to the others in the room.
So beautiful and polite to smile back
To such a ramble of things, such a mess; but a happy one.
But a reserved one, not at all the same as in the natural state.
Better for the inspiration and calmness
And all of the fresh air of clarity;
Better because of the smiles and the new journey—if only imagined.
Even if the tightly woven ball of yarn it has all become
Finds no reason in the end, or does not unwind in time to knit,
The distraction is wonderful, and a new game to concentrate on
Is such a welcome novelty and what if there is something behind it?
So shy, so unlike me; I hurry to learn to learn the rules.

Validity in Doubting Doubt (or any other created thought.)

Doubt in the mind of the created is created by the mind that creates both the first mind and the doubt itself. There is no actual doubt. The reader sees 'doubt' and knows doubt but does not doubt. Only the created mind doubts. But lingering on the doubt I doubt the created mind. Does it think or feel? I doubt it. Can it even actually doubt if there is no doubt created outside of the created mind's doubt? If there is no doubt to create doubt in the created mind that doubts then there is no doubt and we doubt the created mind altogether.

Characters characterize that charter that chats to the creator and the reader of the created. They are not actual people with actual character. They are words on paper. But they are much more. The created are creators themselves. Or at least the words used to create the created are creators. The words submerge images in the reader's mind. Signifiers, symbols, and hullabaloo. The charter is the disconnect. The characters and their actions are all created but do not create. The words behind them create in the reader's mind. The created have no mind outside of the reader's mind. I doubt the mind of the creator minds that it does not matter to the reader. Or at least I doubt it should.

Barthes killed the author, and I threw roses on the grave and laughed. Birth is pretty and creates. Birth has creators and the created. The birth of the reader comes at the cost of the denial of truth in the created. The truth is the reader. The reader is the creator, but the reader did not create the created. The creator created the created. But remember, the doubt in the created mind of the created is not actual unless the mind of the reader contains the mind of the created and the reader can create doubt in the created's mind that the reader created.

Betty Bourgeois Rap

Straight out of 229 I'm coming
It's the Blount Beauty Princess
All guitars strumming

Strike up the band cause the ma'am is here
With a fresh bit a truth to fill your ear.

Now in a rap game dominated by brothers
It's nice to have a sister as more than a lover.

Don't act like you don't know how it is you be
Don't act like I can't feel your eyes humping on me.

You seemed to be memorized by amazing chest
But I'm more than a fly pair of beautiful breast

But I don't need a man hovering on side
Offering to let me up into his broke ass ride

Cause I'm a lady with right fine taste
I'll take who'll provide, no matter the race,
As long as you got some abs and a pretty face
Then might get a chance to try my grace.

Now, I wear work boots like the defest of thugs
It's Timberlands, Sketchers, or, my favorite, Lugs
But when it comes to smoke, it's only heady nugs.
I can roll them finer than oriental rugs.

Dank Heady Karma was my maiden name
Now I'm married to the danger up in the rap game.
My first name's Betty like Oh My God
Sir name of Bourgeois for the proletariat's fall.

Yes I'm a girl but I'm shocking you all
With my own bank account like a rich Barbie doll
But I got a better point so let me begin
Unlike that Barbie bitch, I don't need a Ken.

And while I might be dirty, never call me a ho
Just a strong woman and suckas gots to know.
I know what I want, so I run the run the show
They can't stand aside then suckas gots to go.

When it comes to my bills you know I can pay them
Cause I get on the mic and just straight slay them
I'm not a Saint and I can't save them
I'm a gangstress so I guess I just play them

No you can't drive, but yes you will buy
My movie ticket if we're taking my ride.
You can pick up dinner and yes we're eating nice,
I know you can afford more than water and rice.

If you want to chill then don't try to lie
I think I'm worth more than broke pick-up line
No I won't dance and don't buy me a drink
And next time ensure that your breath don't stink.

I Forget My Poetry

Know that these wand'ring words of mine are true
And that I forget my poetry, all in lieu,
When I mention through clinched passion, red in hue,
That lust is killing me, and living is fucking you.

Nights Like These

I am as rude as you see me
And self-centered, the rumors are true.
And I will not share right now.
No. Not with you.

It is not that I do not like you,
I do not know you,

But right now
Nothing about me
Is for you,
Thank you.
I’m quite through
With my rant now.

I thought you’d think it lovely.
I’m not sharing with you,
But I’d still like you to love me.

Wishing for Eternity

I pushed my own envelope yesterday
wishing for eternity
and I still didn’t learn anything:
I spat on the cement
hoping it would stick
and stay forever.

But Time won’t allow
something as mundane as saliva
to stain its sparkling,
sanctimonious surface.

To make that plane opaque
I would have to do nothing
short of murder.

For Whom Is Pictured

I’d like to know your depth
And what it is you’re feeling.
I’d like to know your thoughts
And what you think of me.

I’d like to see your eyes
And have them give you away.
I’d like to hear your sounds
And know if they were fake.

I’d like to hold your hand
And to feel it tremble.
I’d like to hold you close enough
That I could feel you crumble.

I’d like to smell your breath
And know the spark of its taste.
I’d like to fall asleep
Knowing you were still awake.

I’d like to know you at all,
The light will always flicker.
I’d like the light to steady
So I could see your picture.

On A Popular Transformation

Please, don’t look at me with those drunk eyes
And ask me to kiss those stained lips.
Your lovely lure is gone someplace; it hides
While you pretend yourself with ignorant quips.

I will not hold you, reeking, below me
Nor think you any quicker or untightened.
But I will not wade through, sinking, your show. See,
I have better ways betters ways to let a night end.

You lie in your present state,
What you present is not yourself.
You lie and I resent, I hate,
That you ferment and need my help.

Eggs

I stayed in the milky silk of the bed sheets,
Wrapped daintily around my morning dreams,
While you sent breakfast smells in after me.
They lifted and roused with no snooze
And I soon found you baking, breaking eggs
And discarding the failed shells into the trash
In favor of the creamy spring and golden pearl inside.

And I thought, smelling your damped, showered hair,
And coiling myself around your busy baker’s arms,
That you were like an egg:

Everyone sees your shell, but you give me your yoke.
And I eat it and am better for it. But this is now,
And it took me so long to crack that shell,
I thought I should never really taste you.

Even now I confuse you for your name.
I confuse you for your character.
I confuse you scrambled for your shell.

But then I smell you while you make my breakfast,
And I smile into your eyes while I eat it, satisfied,
And I know that I have broken through
And I can love you,

Because there is us and something only we have;
Each other, our druthers, our eggs.

Stability

Children need mothers, not frivolity.
You are not a martyr in any reality.
This is not friendship, stop trying to cure the malady.
Leave the black hole of the caring abyss separately.
Let them drown in their own irresponsibility.

In apathy there is clarity.

I will never ask you to take care of me.
I am not what I am, nor ever will be,
I am something other than human: you will see
That the quiet, nothing universe is full of beauty,
And that there is weakness in pretended unity.

God was a myth you told for purity,
Relieve yourself of that false remedy
And enjoy the static, self-reliant gaiety
In the hollowness of life and its fragility.

This is the recipe for my system of stability.

And You Go

To keep you alive
I want you inside me
See what's behind my eyes.

Become a phoenix
Burn through and mean it
Ash so you may belong.

Return that char to
The place it belongs to:
Place it inside my mouth.

I know you're dying
Please stop your crying
We haven't forgotten yet.

Just hold yourself straight
Dine on your flame's fate
Let's make this candle fly.

And you're still the one

And it's almost done

And you go,
and you go,
and you go.